


Innocent when you dream

by gloss



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcoholism, Anal, Breathplay, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Community: kink_bingo, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, Emotion Play, F/F, Tentacles, Verbal Humiliation, Xeno, bites/bruises, tentabulge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:44:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's memories that I'm stealing/but you're innocent when you dream": Hate date with Roxy and Meenah.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Innocent when you dream

**Author's Note:**

> Whole-card extra using [card #18](http://kink-bingo.dreamwidth.org/406055.html?style=mine#cutid18), which was called "hatesex" but might as well have been "kismesis" or "caliginous".
> 
> The xenobiology here is an unholy mash-up of shark and crustacean.
> 
> Title and summary from Tom Waits.

Dirk made you the dress, called it a dejavuvenir, memento mori, of Derse. Layers of purple tulle and satin, so many that in it you are more wedding cake than woman.

"Lookit you, all done up and turned out," Meenah says. As she cocks her head, her sneer widens, makes room for yet more of her teeth. "Pretty as a perch. Could just eat you up."

You're pinned to the wall, neck trapped between prongs of her trident. She's making you tremble all over. Every move makes your dress rattle and sigh.

The sounds betray you; you need to be silent.

With her claw, sharper than any fillet knife, Meenah slices it off you, slow, careful, cruel.

She grins up at you, flat dead eyes, countless fangs. "Wrigglin' for *me*, monkey?"

Licking you from mons to clavicle, that wavering line's a direct reminder of just how quickly she can gut you, skinning you bare. One slice, a squeeze, and all your blue-red entrails would swell up and out, spill everywhere.

"Fuck you," you say. The lines come easy; you've said them so often, their meaning got washed away awhile ago.

She clicks her tongue ring against her teeth. "Fuck *you*."

Her mandible thrusts forward when she goes to suckle on your shoulder. The motion is swift, almost elegant, but wholly alien.

This close, her alienness is as repellent as it is, somehow, enthralling. Her skin is taut and flexible, poreless, When she touches you, your skin prickles and rebels. She pinches an old bruise, from the last time you met, maybe the time before, and your stomach lurches.

All you know of humanity extends to the ends of your skin and no farther, but you know alien. You know her moist, salt-laden threat almost as well as you know the carapacians' smooth, gentle vitality and cats' warm-furred, limber arrogance.

You don't know much.

But she is here and so are you, and maybe solitude is overrated.

When she gets near you, her gills swell and flutter, go fuchsia with need.

She smells like empty wells and dead husks, dry tangled tendrils of old algae.

You've noodled her nook, choked down her tentacular bulge, but the scariest, most shame-ridden feeling invariably comes right now, before anything happens, when she sees just how much you want, how much you hate her.

She kicks the shreds of your dress away and yanks free her trident. Before you can move, claws are on your throat and a knee between your own.

"Ugly bitch," she breathes, same old song, second verse, two-hundredth and second verse. "Drier than bone."

"Aw, honey," you manage to say, voice rough from lack of air, "You're not that bad."

She feigns surprise when she shoves her hand between your legs. "What's this? Wet?"

"No thanks to you," you say. Your cunt betrays you, flexes and slicks her palm, aching.

You have spent your life hating trolls, especially and always she who looks exactly like Meenah. That hate was wan and useless, impotent. You've learned that much. Hate up close, hate that fills your mouth with spit and clings to her shoulders and bites at her chin, hate that can do and move and *produce*, make her yowl with need, now that's something.

You hate her for everything she is (sea troll, dommy pushy bitch, pathetic waste of space-time) and for everything she isn't (La Condesce, powerful).

She is as trapped here as you are. That makes her all the more loathsome.

She tightens her grip on your throat. Gnats swarm the edges of your vision; your lungs expand and collapse uselessly. Someday, she might just snap your neck. As it is, her claws break the skin on the nape of your neck. You are suddenly quite knowledgeable about every soft piece of interlocking cartilage in your throat. You clamp your thighs shut around her wrist and grind down on her palm. Her claws snag your pubic hair and scratch the soft flesh.

Her tongue clicks wildly. Maybe it's troll language, maybe it's bestial, maybe she's just as crazy as you are. You'd say something back, but air is getting more and more precious. You'd hate to waste it on talking to her. Your legs are going rubbery; your balance wavers as you grind down into her hand. She's grinding back, pants dropping before she kicks one foot free. That loosens the crushing hold and you suck in breath like it's a good tequila.

"Gasping like a glubbin' drowning monkey," she says, thrusting her hips forward, rubbing her bulge on your thigh. "Look so sad, ought to put you outta your misery."

"And where would that leave you?"

"Happy," she lies, and her bulge is opening, the tentacles writhing out, trailing slick that prickles and warms over your thigh as they seek purchase. "Happy as a fucking beautiful clam."

"Alone," you say. Mouth on her hard throat, up to the frill of her first gill, you fuck your tongue in and out, feel her stiffen against you. Her pupils will be dilating as the oxygen decreases in her blood, her fingers will start to tingle, her skull will fall back and expose all her gills to you.

_There_ , just like that. She's more predictable than you could ever dread. You bite the spongy flush and she shivers against you, her tentacles clawing at your mound, pushing in, poking at the hood of your clit.

You spit out the gill lobe and grab her hair. "Alone," you remind her and shove her back, watch her fall on her ass, go sprawling. Her legs akimbo, her mouth hanging open, tentacles waving and grabbing at nothing.

"Whoops," you say, flat as a Strider. "Guess that's it."

Meenah hooks her foot around your knee and yanks you down. You land on your hands and knees, the pain rattling right through your bones. You need a drink. You need to come; you need --. It doesn't matter. 

You crawl up over her, take a breath as you stare down.

"Glubbin' _fuck_ me," she says. "For hake's sake."

She's a monster, baring teeth, snarling, thrusting her hips up so her bulge grabs at your cunt. God knows what she sees as she rakes claws up and down your arms and thrusts harder. 

"No," you say, but she thrusts anyway, grinning at you.

"You want it," she's saying and you think maybe you don't, you're pretty sure you don't, but it's too late. One tentacle pushes inside your pussy, groaning wide and insistent, and another laps at your ass as a third tickles your clit.

"I'm going home if you don't stop the puns," you say, wheezing, no force at all.

She grabs your hips and pulls you down. "Like you got a home to go --"

You lean forward and wiggle your ass (ain't nothing there *to* shake, gurl, or so Dirk would say), and take in the tentacle that's all but drooling at your hole. It throbs against your pucker, expands, then wriggles inside, scraping pleasure right up your spine.

"Better?" you ask.

Meenah can't answer.

You're stuffed already, out of breath and sick of it all.

There's nothing in her eyes. You hate her for that, as much as you envy her. A liter of gin can't blank you out nearly so well (but you'll keep trying. Just in case).

You sit down heavily, crush her bulge and _rock_ as hard as you can, fucking her back until she clicks and squeals. Blood streaks your arms and fills your mouth; you must have bitten your tongue. Maybe she did it. You lose track so easily.

She did, because she's kissing you now, hard and sharp, lapping at the blood and shoving herself deeper inside you. Tears leak from your eyes, sting your face, as you struggle to move. Pinned from below, spread like a specimen, fucked so full your eyeballs don't fit. Your brain doesn't fit, your tongue lolls.

"Sweet fucking hole," she says against your ear. Inside you, everywhere, she pounds and shudders and screws deeper.

You don't want to be here. You don't want anything, not this, or the alternative, whatever that is.

Nowhere to go, but rock bottom is a concept that went out early in the 21st century. Personal growth stopped being significant, even possible, when time-travelling aliens took over; when the highest power is a sadistic troll empress, you're pretty much fucked from the get-go.

Meenah curses under you, clawing her way up to sitting, then flopping back, her hips jittering and grinding. You're filled, back to front, and you can't breathe let alone think.

That's all you ask for. 

Just this, confusion so pressing, so roiled and turbulent, that it might as well be tranquility. She's cupping your skull as your head falls back, fucking your mouth with two claws, and you're nothing but rubber and bone, torrents of sensation, pain that jolts brighter than lightning, ecstasy that flares out faster than sound.

"Make you pay," she hissed, the second time you did this, when she shoved you face down and fucked you for hours, one tentacle after another, until your feet slipped in the puddles of genetic material, until you fell off her, hitting your head, passing out.

You don't know what you did to her, what you owe her, what you're being punished for. She doesn't even know you, any more than you know her. 

She doesn't even know what a fucking kismesis is. What kind of troll *is* she?

"You're looking at her," you told her by way of explanation. She laughed, as if you could possibly mean anything to anyone.

She did have a point.

But she keeps coming back. Keeps fucking you up.

When she starts to come, she croons, a lullaby of slurs and recrimination, and you wrap your arms around her. Hold her close, right up against your soft underbelly, rocking your hips and milking her bulge until the gush floods you full, douche and enema both.

You wrap your hands in her braids to hold her in place. If you yanked hard enough, got the angle just right, you could pop her head off. Clean and precise, just like that.

You're getting cold. As the flush dies away, it leaves every prickle and scrape tingling, every bruise pulsing half a beat behind your heart. Scabs are pulling closed and drying; you've got a tooth loose in your lower jaw, a hank of hair lost from the back of your head. You're not going to walk straight for days.

"Let me go," she mutters but doesn't actually move.

"Stick with me," you tell her, wincing as her bulge shrinks and withdraws, leaves you stretched out and aching, "and you'll never be abalone."


End file.
